Listen to Peter Campion reading this poem.
Fast transparency that explodes the fuel and air
in the cylinder and shuts the intake valves and thrusts
down on the piston so the crankshaft spins and spins
you cut through all material that blocks your way
so fast that driving now past rushes and billboards
this pull to her could be your own impersonal presence
cloaked in the day to day of the malls and condos
all those wired sensors keeping on guard for you
except you flicker even inside the wet wall
where papillary muscle makes that sweet pulsation
in whatever room she’s moving through this moment
under the cotton and the cool smoothness tinted blue.
